


A Cold, Red Planet

by ohlookaperson



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Space, Detective Noir, F/M, IN SPACE!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlookaperson/pseuds/ohlookaperson
Summary: A cold, stormy night; a small, empty office; and a mystery. That's what my boss has to deal with. I just have to research the people he's investigating, research his clients to make sure none of them are actually trying to kill him, and of course--make sure he doesn't get killed being stupid. All in a day's work, right? || A Hana-centric AU set in the Juno Steel universe from the Penumbra Podcast. Delightfully capable secretary Hana Song makes sure her hard boiled detective boss Jack Morrison doesn't get himself killed by doing something stupid--as per usual.





	1. Welcome to the City

Hyperion City. It’s dark, dirty, crowded. The city never sleeps, and despite the near constant neon flashes it still manages to maintain a dark haze throughout the sky, day or night. I _love it_. There’s nothing like seeing the rush and bustle of the city, just watching the people go by with their business and their worries and their cares. The higher up you are, the more beautiful it is. It’s gorgeous; everyone’s struggles and their problems are so far down below you, and it feels like yours are just as small and tiny, like you could blow them away in the wind. Sometimes I get up onto the roof, and I watch the wind blow the clouds this way and that.

But Hyperion City can eat you up and spit you out if you’re not careful. I’ve seen plenty of good people get hurt--sometimes they were being stupid, sometimes they were taken advantage of, sometimes they were just in the wrong place in the wrong time. It can get pretty disheartening, of course. My boss, for one. He doesn’t have much faith in anybody these days. He’s been boiled rock hard by the crimes in the city, but I can’t really blame him for it. It makes him good at his job, even if he does get unpleasant on occasion.

He’s got lines crossing the entirety of his face, like the whole history of his life is written out there if you knew how to read it. His hair’s gone white since before I knew him--I like to tease him about it, sometimes. He likes to keep it cut real short, military style, I think. I like to tell him that he should keep what little hair he has on his head, but all he does is just growl back. It’s fun to rile him up.

I guess I should properly introduce him. Jack Morrison, Private Eye. He’s grumpier than a half drowned cat, and he’s got more scar tissue on him than regular skin, I think. He’s got a real intimidating look to him--sharp, piercing eyes; the kind of stare that can make even hardened criminals cry for their mommas. He’s a veteran, I know that much, but of which wars he won’t say. There’s a lot he doesn’t say about himself, as frustrating as it is, but he’s my boss, so it’s not like I can really complain.

“Morning, Hana.” He’s polite, at the very least. I’ve worked for a few PIs before, and they’re not usually the friendliest of people--not the good ones, anyway. But Jack always makes a point to be polite, even if he isn’t always nice. I’ve worked for regular bosses that don’t give that much thought to anybody, let alone a secretary. He’s my favorite boss so far. I really hope he doesn’t kick the bucket anytime soon. I try to tell him that often, so he has something to wake up in the morning for. I tell him this morning, too. Just in case he needs something to keep him motivated. “I’d hate to lose this job,” I add.

“Punk,” he growls, but I can see the corner of his mouth turn up. Jack Morrison isn’t an expressive man, and it’s taken me a long while to figure out his tells. I’d hate to have to start all over again with a new boss. He secludes himself away into his office, and the wait begins.

For him, anyway. Jack thinks we’ve got a drought of customers, but the truth is that I’ve learned how to weed out the cases that he _wants_. If it’ll keep the lights on, Jack will tail a cheating partner, or search out a missed connection. But when we’re not starving to death, sticking him with those cases is like holding his feet to the fire. He hates it, and I hate his moods, so we’ve come to an understanding. Well--understanding might be too strong a word, seeing as Jack didn’t really get to voice his side of the argument, but I know he agrees with me.

The sad truth is, most of these people who come in asking for Jack Morrison really only need someone who will really listen to them. These people are always at the end of their rope, with nobody else to turn to. They need someone, anyone, to validate their struggles and help them find an answer--whatever it may be. This is the third wife this week who’s come in just so: nerves frayed, emotions on a hair trigger, her hair a mess and her clothes either backwards or incorrectly buttoned.

“It’s--my husband,” she sniffs. “I--I just don’t know what to do.”

I keep a box of tissues under my desk for this reason. It would save more time to have it out, but I don’t want it to look like I do this for everyone. I give everyone a special, personal experience, and they leave without bothering Jack and remembering how helpful we are. It’s a win-win scenario, and I lean forward to listen to every word of her story. It’s a similar one to many others--he goes out early and comes home late, she can smell someone else’s perfume on him. There’s many breaks to cry and dab delicately at her eyes, and I listen to every word. Sometimes I take a few mental notes about what to say in response to what, to make sure I don’t stop space out and stop listening.

“He doesn’t respect you,” I finally tell her, and I wrap my hands around her nervously wringing ones to make a point.I look into her eyes, and I keep my gaze on her. “He thinks it doesn’t matter what he does. You need to tell him that he can’t treat you this way.” The pep talk continues on for a little longer--I help her straighten herself out, and by the time she’s ready to go she face the world with a brave, albeit slightly trembling, upper lip. I listen to a man sob as he bemoans the fact that his wife hates him. I listen to all the people and sift through their cases until I find one that Jack will like.

Jack is not so impressed at my selection process. “Just once,” he growls at me on his way out, “I’d like to be able to not be shot at while I’m doing my job.”

“I doubt it,” I tell him. “You’d shoot yourself from boredom if I send you on another wild spouse chase.” He only grunts in response and strides out of the office. He cuts an almost regal figure--from the military experience, I think, but who really knows? Not me, that’s for sure.

Just because the boss is out doesn’t mean that the clients stop coming. I listen to them all, and I write down the details of the important cases. Jack will appreciate some of them, although I’m not sure that I’m going to give him all of them. Jack likes to think that he doesn’t need to attend to his human needs--eating, sleeping, taking care of himself in general, and sometimes he needs...a little help remembering.

It’s a little old fashioned taking notes down on paper, but I think it’s more personable than typing it as they talk. The notepad is less intrusive, more portable, and plus--I like it. It takes some time to type up all the notes and send them to Jack, but. Well, the fact is, I know that Jack’s job is dangerous. I don’t know how many of his scars are from the war and how many are from his work, but keeping busy keeps me from worrying.

The line isn’t very active--more often than not, it’s bad news when it does ring. Jack likes to screen his calls, but I don’t let it get past the first ring, clients or no. If it’s Jack, he cuts to the chase. There’s a brief second while I wait to figure out if I should bother with the standard greeting.

It’s Jack. “Hana. Look into the CEO of Volskaya Industries for me, will you?”

“Sure, boss.” He says ' _l_ _ook into_ ,' but what he really means is that he wants _everything_. Financial records, gossip, dirt--anything useful. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Sometimes he just needs the one piece of evidence to steer him in the right direction, and finding it is easy enough. But sometimes--

“Anything,” Jack says, and hangs up. Dammit. I’m jumping into a haystack to look for a needle, except that the needle happens to look and feel exactly like a piece of hay. Lucky me, I guess. It’s just like any other case for me, anyways. I’ll look up anything I can about the cybernetics corporation and when Jack hears something he likes he’ll go after it like a dog after a bone. And, at the end of the month, sweet compensation.

Volskaya Industries actually has a fascinating history. I spend the rest of the day engrossed in learning about the history of cybernetics, from prosthetic limbs, to wearable items, all the way to implants. Jack’s visor is a Volskaya product. Just another new thing I learned while on the job. On paper, Volskaya is a flourishing, prospering company. Nothing else I can find suggests otherwise. I could dig a little deeper, if I really need to, but first I take a dive into the tabloids.

Jack doesn’t like reading gossip rags, but even he can’t deny that they’re useful. Like this article, for example--the CEO of Volskaya Industries is supposedly about to leave her wife. No possible way to know if it was true, of course, but I’m sure Jack wants to know about  it anyway. Romance is always a strong motive for--for, well, _something_ , and he’ll be able to tell if it’s true or not if he confronts her about it. I send him the more interesting finds, and start the search for any dirty money or hidden financial troubles just in case it’s not enough. The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and at the end of the day I get a call from Jack telling me to lock up the office and pick him up out in the outskirts of the city.

I don’t ask him why. I keep a fully stocked first aid kit in both the office and the car, just for calls like these. He doesn’t sound hurt, so he should be alright. The drive from downtown, where we are, to the outskirts, is long--but it’s never boring. It doesn’t matter how many times I make the trip; every time feels fresh. Hyperion City is a city of movement, and nothing stands still. Not the people, not the businesses, not even the lights. Even in the stiffer traffic jams, I occupy myself with the scenery. A lot of people say that Hyperion City isn’t scenery. I tell them that they’re missing out.

To me, the city is a living work of art. The way the lights all bounce and compete for your attention, the languid flow of people to and fro, the natural hum of being _alive_ \--I feel it in my own blood, sometimes, the beat beat beating of Halcyon City. Everyone else gets angry in traffic. I enjoy myself.

That is, _normally_ I enjoy myself. Today, Jack is waiting for me, and this there’s no time to take in the sights. Everyone always complains about my driving, but no one can argue with my speed. I can make the trip to the outskirts in half the time anyone else can, even in the middle of rush hour. Jack knows this. It’s half the reason he called me to pick him up. The other half is that there are no taxis in the outskirts.

I always find the outskirts fascinating. Despite its name, there actually isn’t much gradient between the city and the sand wastes. Almost as if it hits an invisible barrier, the city stops abruptly at the end of the street, and right up against highrises and skyscrapers is the bright red desert, rocky and hard. The rocky plains continue for a while until the entire thing becomes a cesspool of sand, and although some bored residents of Mars like to go camping in the plains, hardly anyone ventures out into the sand wastes without good reason.

Jack stands out against the red desert. I can see him immediately; tall, straight figure, impressive scowl, pale white stark against the red rock. I pull up next to him and flash him a bright grin. “The Hana Song Taxi Express, at your service.” That earns me a smile--a quick upturn of the corners of his mouth, and he huffs a quiet laugh as he slides in. “Thanks, Hana. Take me home?”

“Jack!” I make a fake, horrified gasp, and splay my hand over my heart. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

He places his palm against the side of my head and shoves me, but gently. “The CEO of Volskaya decided to give me a one way trip to the outskirts, Hana. I wanna go home.”

I’m not above blowing a raspberry at him. But I do start the car, and we’re whizzing off again, to Jack’s dusty old apartment. I actually don’t know what Jack’s apartment is like--I’ve never been inside, but by the look of the building, I’m willing to bet a fair amount of credits that it was his apartment even before the war. It’s certainly old enough.

“Did she say anything interesting?”

“She’s definitely leaving her wife,” Jack says. He settles back into the seat--I’ve picked him up enough times that the seat is already adjusted for him--and his eyes slide closed, but he keeps talking. “All I have to do is figure out if she’s already seeing someone else or not.”

I want to complain about all the extra research I did for nothing, but I know Jack well enough to know that it’s useless. “I wanted to know all the facts, Hana,” he’ll say in a disapproving voice. Or, “I needed to make sure there were no other forces at play, Hana.” I don’t know if it’s better or worse than him just admitting that he’s jerking me around. “And then it’s case closed?”

“And then it’s case closed,” Jack confirms.


	2. Old Time's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a blast from the past. Hana, as always, saves the day.

I recognize him the second he steps through the door.

I’m not normally one for faces, but when one encounters Gabriel Reyes, one doesn’t easily forget him. He doesn’t even bother to look at me, heading straight for Jack’s door, and when I get in between the two, he fixes me with an intense scowl.

“He’s not here right now,” I tell him, but Gabriel just scoffs.

“Cut the shit, girl. You’re going to try to use my own tricks against me? I don’t think so.” He shoves me aside, and I hate it, but I end up slamming straight into the wall. I swear at myself for letting him catch me off guard, but by the time I right myself he’s already strolled in through Jack’s door.

Gabriel was the type of boss that didn’t pay attention to his secretaries.

I watched Jack’s door, hopeful that Jack would haul him out by his stupid, dramatic collar, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I sat back down at my desk, trying not to grit my teeth too much.

Jack had a  _ type _ . Dark, mysterious, and altogether no good--that was his type, and Gabriel Reyes fit that type to a T. No matter what Gabriel was in there saying right now, Jack was eating it out of the palm of his hand. For all he’s been through, Jack doesn’t seem to have an ounce of self preservation in his body. All I could do was wait, and hope that Jack had enough sense not to let  _ this one _ poison him like the last one did.

They left together, eventually, Jack staring at Gabriel like was some kind of treasure. It was stupid. “Cancel everything,” he called over his shoulder as he left. Cancel everything. As if that made any sense. “You don’t have any appointments today,” I grumbled to no one. They were off, the grand adventure just beginning, and I was stuck here, fielding questions left and right about where poor Fifi went, or why Harold would just up and leave, just like that, why, why,  _ why _ . 

I flipped the sign to closed. Jack wasn’t going to be back for a while, I needed a fucking  _ break _ , and most importantly, I needed to know why another PI was interested in Jack Morrison. 

Researching my old boss was no easy matter. Gabriel Reyes was legally dead--for quite some time now, if I remember correctly, and even the quietest circles only had whispers of movements of a man called Reaper. There’s nothing I can find without going out, asking in person--but that’s the kind of thing I leave for the detectives, and I want to save any fieldwork as a last resort.

“You are going to owe me  _ so _ much overtime, boss,” I announce to the empty office. I research the records of Gabriel Reyes, just in case. I’m really grasping at straws, but I don’t want to be out doing Jack’s job for him. I want to be doing  _ my  _ job, which is infinitely safer and requires much less cardio. I’m not expecting to find anything as I browse through the files, but when I see it…

My heart stops. Gabriel Reyes was bad news, as was anyone else that won Jack over that quickly, and I should have tried harder to keep Jack away from him. I  _ knew _ this was going to happen. Not many people can say they have their boss on speed dial--Jack is number 1. “Pick up,” I hiss into my end, but after an eternity ringing, all I get is his voicemail. “Call me  _ right now _ , boss,” I say, and I try to do what Jack does--make my voice all menacing and serious,  _ authoritative _ . But I can tell, already, that to him all it sounds like petulance. I try again anyway. “You can’t trust him, boss.”

“Jack, you  _ idiot _ ,” I complain. But that’s all the time I spend complaining, before I grab what i need and head out. I need to go rescue my stupid boss.

* * *

 

They are just where I expect them to be. Just because I spent a good majority of the day searching for them doesn’t mean I didn’t expect this exact scenario playing out. They’re in an abandoned warehouse, empty and out of the way, and Jack has just found out the hard way that Gabriel Reyes is now a gun for hire. There’s a stiff on the ground--thankfully, nobody I know. Hopefully, nobody Jack knows. Gabriel has Jack at gunpoint, but I have the element of surprise on my side.

“Drop it,” I tell him. It’s not often that one gets the drop on him, but, like most villains, Gabriel is prone to monologue. Well; less a monologue and more a deranged rant at Jack. He’s probably upset that Jack refuses to join him in sponsored murder. Personally? I don’t much care. All I’m concerned with is making sure that my boss survives.

Gabriel sneers. “Awful attached, aren’t you?”

“I generally like having a source of income, yeah,” I snap back. “Beat it. Get out of here.”

He gives the both of us a rather offensive gesture, but he leaves. After a few moments, we can hear the sound of a motorcycle revving away. A  _ motorcycle _ . I want to smack Jack for how utterly and completely  _ cliche _ it all is--but he’s hurting bad enough as is.

“You alright, boss?” I kneel in front of him, and I try not to grimace. He’s fucked up, good and proper. Bruises all over his face, blood flowing freely from his nose. I wouldn’t be surprised to find broken ribs under his jacket. “You look like shit.”

Not even the baited hook grabs him. He stares past me, through me. “Why?”

It’s funny, how just one word can carry so much meaning with it. Sometimes, it’s filled with rage, with fire, with fury. Sometimes, it’s just the last piece of the puzzle, sometimes it’s the first. Sometimes...it’s the sound of heartbreak. Jack trusted his life to Gabriel Reyes at one point, and he was probably...he was so overjoyed to have him back from the dead, of that much I was certain. Jack would have clutched to Gabriel tightly on that motorcycle, pressing as much against him as he could, just reveling in  _ feeling _ him again.

Why, indeed.

“Come on, Jack,” I tell him. “It’s time to go home.”

* * *

 

Jack spends the ride home staring blankly out the window. I force him to hobble up the stairs, and for a moment I’m afraid I’m going to have to dig through his pockets for his keys, but I only have to prompt him once before he unlocks the door and listlessly drags himself inside, depositing himself on the threadbare, but clean loveseat. It’s the only comfortable place to sit, but it barely holds more than Jack. He didn’t expect company, that was certain. Still, everything was neat, straight, incredibly clean for someone that didn’t showcase his place. Not even a speck of dust anywhere to be found.

I kneel in front of him with the first aid kit I brought from the car, and Jack doesn’t even seem to register the sting of the cleaning alcohol as I wipe his face as clean as I can get it. He sits still and lets me play nurse, as best I can, but when I suggest a hospital, he shakes his head. “Too much to explain,” he says, and considering where I found him, I don’t argue.

“Have you had dinner yet?” I ask him. Jack only responds with a halfhearted, “Not hungry.”

I search his fridge, and it’s no fucking wonder he’s not hungry. I, for one, am starving, so I pour myself some cereal in a bowl and for the first time today, eat. His fridge is practically devoid of anything besides alcohol, and despite my better judgement, I put the whiskey in front of him. I don’t bother with giving him a glass. The drunker he gets, the less alcohol will get into the glass, and all of it is going to end up in his stomach anyway. 

He stays stoic for a good half a bottle. I perch myself on the arm of the couch, and I flip through the TV absentmindedly. I settle on a Gallifreyan sitcom, and Jack works his way through the whisky. I’m just about to figure out the timelines on the sitcom, when Jack finally starts to talk.

“I should’ve listened to your voicemail.”

_ That _ gets my attention. Forget Marvin and his infinite attempts to impress Lindsay, Jack  _ got my voicemail _ ? “You listened to it?”

“I didn’t wanna believe it,” Jack admits, his words more slurred than usual. He covers his face with one hand, wincing as he accidentally punches himself in his black eye. “He...I thought he was dead, Hana. I was...so happy he was alive.

“They smeared his reputation. I thought...I thought, for sure, that was what you were calling about. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. I…” Jack broke off, a choked sob wrenching through his throat.

“It’s okay, boss.” I slip into the space next to him, sliding down from my perch on the couch’s arm, and after an awkward moment, lay my hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

Of course I knew. Who didn’t? Anyone that looked at them could tell that they had a  _ history _ together; a long, passionate,  _ loving _ history together. It took no stretch of the imagination to think that Gabriel was once Jack’s whole world. Jack cried, while in the background, a laugh track played. Appropriate.

He cried some, drank some. I helped him stumble into bed, and afterwards curled up on the loveseat. Marvin had spawned a new generation of timelines, and I was lost all over again. Whatever. Who cared? Not me!

The tears were hot, and ugly, but at least they were quiet. I buried my face in a pillow and cried. Gods! How like Jack! I  _ know _ \--I  _ know _ , that despite the pain, the betrayal, the thing that Jack is mourning the  _ most _ is how  _ different _ Gabriel is now. He’s mourning the loss of the man he used to love, the fact that Gabriel Reyes is technically, still alive, but the man he knew has become twisted and corrupted beyond recognition. Gabriel is alive, but it’s not  _ his _ Gabriel. Jack gets into a life threatening situation, and the thing he cares about most is that his old flame isn’t how he was all those years ago.

Stupid. Stupid Jack could never, not once, just be  _ selfish _ for once. Just think about  _ himself _ . Gabriel Reyes is a good man, I  _ know _ that’s what Jack will insist. Gabriel Reyes is a good man and this  _ Reaper _ nonsense isn’t him. I hate Jack, and I hate fixing everything, I hate picking him up when he’s all broken. I hate it. I hate him.

I hate myself.

* * *

 

Wearing Jack’s jacket, after brief experimentation, is not as fun as I thought it would be. I enjoy the feeling of being dwarfed in his jacket, but for practical purposes, it’s really not that great. It’s warm, certainly, but going shopping in it is nigh impossible--cooking with it on is impossible, full stop. I leave it hanging on the corner of a chair in the kitchen as I cook myself a proper meal. Cereal is not as filling as Jack seems to believe.

Jack still isn’t awake. I wash the dishes, clean everything, watch more TV--I can’t stay in this tiny little apartment without going mad. But I can’t leave Jack, either. I know, probably better than anyone, exactly how big of a mess he is right now. By the time I’ve made myself lunch, Jack finally stumbles out of bed.

“You made breakfast?” he asks, incredulous.

“Lunch, actually,” I correct him. I hand him the portion I was so very close to consuming myself, and set about making myself another lunch. I can handle another few minutes of starvation. It’s fine.

He doesn’t say anything, and it doesn’t sound like he’s eating, either. I finally check back on him, and he’s staring at the fried rice like he doesn’t know what food is.

“Jack? You forget how to use a spoon?” It’s a legitimate question. He could have been pretty concussed--no way for me to tell, really. “Alzheimer’s set in early?” That one was a joke, but I like Jack grumpy better than I like...whatever this is. Jack seems...lost, even in his own apartment, and I don’t like it.

“I don’t remember having any of this in the house,” he finally says. “Maybe it has.”

“No such luck, boss. I went shopping. You’re supposed to keep  _ food _ in your fridge, not just booze, you know.” I sound like his mother. Ugh. I turn back to my food instead, and the loud hissing of oil and butter drowns out everything else for a while. I pile a bowl high with my reward and sit across from Jack, on the other side of the counter.

“Thank you, Hana.”

“Stop that,” I tell him immediately, and he raises an eyebrow in confusion. I don’t like how unsure Jack is, around me, around anything. “Stop being--like this. Be your normal grumpy self. I don’t like this.”

He grins at that. “Alright. I think I can manage that.” I can finally smile back, and we eat together in a comfortable silence. He tries to help with the dishes after, but I shoo him away from the sink. 

“If you’re not going to the hospital, you’re not going to be working, either. Who knows how bad--” I have to stop myself from saying  _ Gabriel fucked you up _ . We both know that there’s no measurement in the galaxy that could measure that amount of hurt. “--your injuries are,” I finish, desperately trying to pretend that neither of us noticed the moment of silence.

Jack is quiet. He accepts my bustling him out of the kitchen, but I know the look on his face. “How did you know, Hana?”

I don’t want to tell him. I know the answer will only hurt him more, but I also know Jack Morrison. He won’t stop until he gets the answer, no matter what it is. But I have to ask him anyway. “Are you sure you wanna know, boss?”

He gives me a hard stare. It’s the same stare that’s broken criminals, that’s seen through liars, that’s intimidated even the most powerful of enemies. He doesn’t want to know. He  _ wants _ to be able to bury Gabriel in his memory as the man he knew. But he  _ needs _ to know, what the man he loved has turned into. He needs to know who Reaper is.

It’s a conversation neither of us want to have, but we have to have it anyway.

“I worked for him. I didn’t know it at first, but I...I was fixing his books for him.” It’s not something I’m proud of, and it’s hard enough to admit it without having to tell Jack that the man he loved had turned into a monster. “It was...little things, at first. I was good with the numbers, and I never actually met anyone--none of his clients, or anything. He told me he was a PI. That everything had to be secret. So I thought...I thought I was helping keep his clients’ information private. But...the little things kept starting to add up.” I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like remembering the cold trickle of realization drip down my spine as large payments coincide with mysterious disappearances or accidental deaths. “So I did some digging.

“And then one day he was just...gone. The office was boarded up, and I never saw him again.” I hadn’t known whether to be indignant that he hadn’t given me any warning or be thankful that he had disappeared. “He must have noticed that someone was digging around his past. He split and ran--didn’t give me so much as a two week notice.” I tried to chuckle, but Jack doesn’t smile. He has a faraway look in his eye, and it’s not hard to guess what he’s thinking about. “I knew he was bad news when he came into the office, but  _ Jack _ …”

Jack smiled then; a lopsided little smile. “I was his commanding officer.” But the look on his face says more than just  _ commanding officer _ . He was Gabriel’s partner, his lover--his everything. Anyone with eyes can see it.

“I know.” It’s what finally pulled me out of the office. It was possible that Gabriel wanted Jack to lead him to a target, but I knew, the moment I saw his service record, that what he wanted from Jack was more personal. It’s why Jack looked so close to  _ death _ when I found him; physical wounds aside, the sense of betrayal alone was enough to kill him.

It’s why I can’t leave him on his own. I know he’s not okay, no matter what he tries to tell me. This is different from the regular heartbreak--Jack gets cold, and distant, and rougher around the edges when he’s recovering from a broken heart. But now Jack is acting as if the very ground beneath his feet has disappeared, and the way his eyes shift around, lost and listless, make the very pit of my stomach roil. He’s not okay; arguably the worst he’s ever been.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” Jack says. He’s rubbing the back of his head--awkward. He feels awkward. He probably wants to have his emotional breakdown in private.

I feel  _ stupid _ . Of course he does. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome, boss.”

I regret saying it the second I see the pained look on Jack’s face. “It’s okay,” I tell him, before he can apologize. “You need time alone. I get it.” I pause, for a moment. Just a moment. Two steps, and I could wrap my arms around him and tug his head down and let him bury his face into my shoulder and cry.

But that’s not what Jack wants. Jack wants Gabriel back, and try as I might, I will never be him. So I’ll go. I’ll let him be alone. “You know...You’re not alone, alright?” I don’t reach out. I don’t take the two steps, I don’t touch him. I’m not who he wants. But I won’t leave him without being  _ sure _ \--I have to be  _ sure _ he knows that he can rely on me.

Jack gives me--a look. His eyes are soft, and gentle, and he takes two steps towards me and lays a hand on my shoulder. His hand is warm, large--comforting. “Thank you, Hana.”  

Oh, son of a bitch. The tears come up faster than I expect, and there’s no pushing the tears back. Jack is surprised to see them--of course he is--but I tackle him in a hug before he can ask. He grunts in pain, but he wraps his arms around me. “You always do--stupid shit,” I manage to force out between huge, ugly sobs. “Don’t--don’t do it all by yourself, okay?”

I can feel the rumble of his chest as he laughs. He doesn’t let go until my shoulders stop shaking, and I can feel him stroking my hair. “No more stupid shit,” he promises, and I hold him tight while I have the chance. He might have lost Gabriel, but it’s nice that Jack knows he can rely on me, too. When I finally pull away, I scrub my eyes dry and fix him with a hard stare.

“I mean it, mister,” I warn him, and he smiles back at me. I get out of there before I do something even more embarrassing than bawling into his shirt. We both have wounds to lick--Jack will drown his in whiskey, and I’ll drown mine in work. By the time Jack is all healed and comes back to the office, everything will be...just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, everybody. I'm honestly not really happy with chapter two? What Gabe wants is really personal to him and Jack, and it doesn't really get explained because the story isn't about Jack; it's about Hana. But I'm still unhappy with the connection between Hana and Gabriel because it was definitely really forced. blugh. At any rate, chapter three will be much better. See yall next week! <3


	3. Just Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody, sorry about the serious unannounced and unexpected hiatus. I've been hit with a lot of shit lately, but the good news is that this fic isn't abandoned. Just...slow. I don't have anything else written at the moment so updates from now on are going to be slow, but I plan on finishing it. Thanks for sticking around everybody.

Everything is _not fine_. It’s been a few months now, and Jack is increasingly pissing me off. Jack is currently in the middle of an art trade between Hyperion City Museum of Martian History and a _bounty hunter_ , so infamous they call her Widowmaker. Widowmaker has some serious dirt on the head of the museum, and I’m tempted to just leak everything myself to make the whole exchange pointless, but it’s too late for that now. Jack is doing his damn best to just keep the museum head alive, and once again, it’s up to _me_ to make sure _Jack_ stays alive.

 

The sniper nest is easy enough to pick out. If Jack had spent just a _second_ doing reconnoissance before walking straight into this goddamn trap, I would still be in the office, happily filing paperwork, or doing interviews, or--literally _anything_ else. I curse out Jack as I head to the roof. I’m wasting my breath, but it makes me feel better. Slightly.

 

The only thing that stops the stream of profanity from my mouth is a sharp beeping. It’s so quiet I almost miss it, especially under a creative new string of insults I’ve always wanted to try out, but I shove myself backwards just in time to see the cherry red bomb explode.

 

Well, that at least should let Widowmaker know that she’s not alone. I can hear another muffled explosion above me, and _shit_. Now I have to book it back _downstairs_ \--if she’s as smart as I think she is, she would have rigged the elevator shafts to explode too. I hate my boss so much sometimes.

 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. My phone rings, loudly cheerful and completely inconsistent with my crumbling surroundings. I put it on speaker and swing from the railing to skip the stairs entirely, instead shoving my body from one floor to the next like the world’s most dangerous game of monkey bars.

 

 _“_ Hana, tell me that wasn’t you.”

 

“Alright, what should I say then?” I’m certain he can hear the building collapsing above me, and how hard I’m breathing. It wouldn’t surprise me if he could hear my heartbeat, too.

 

“ _Hana!_ ”

 

Ouch. I wince. “Boss, kinda trying to stay alive right now. Yelling, surprisingly isn’t helping.” Luckily, my method of getting down seems to be pretty effective. Even luckier, Widowmaker’s plan seems to be more focused on keeping her safe from intruders than from destroying the entire fucking building. Still, no reason to slow down if I can help it.

 

“What are you _doing_ here, Hana?” Jack asks, and I can tell just how hard he’s trying not to yell. There’s a muffled thud--Jack punching the nearest wall, I’d bet a million credits on it.

 

“The usual, boss!” I snap, and hang up on him. He’s literally just across the street, and he can yell at me face to face. I take a minute to catch my breath--the building has definitely stopped self destructing, and I find the nearest elevator. The ride down to ground level is short, but just long enough for me to catch my breath.

 

Jack is waiting for me in the lobby, the museum head nervously staring at the walls and edging closer to the door. The second the elevator doors open he storms over. He looks, for all the world, like a dad about to scold his child for running across a busy street. Jack grabs my arm to hold me still for a moment, and I can tell he’s trying to find any injuries on me with his visor.

 

“You could have _died_ ,” he says, as if that’s an event exclusive to today’s events.

 

“All due respect, boss?” I sidestep around him and slide onto a desk in the lobby. We’re the same height now, eye level connecting with neither of us having to look up or down, and I lean forward. “Where do you think we are? I could die just coming into work. I could die going home. Maybe I was never in an army, but I’m a soldier, just like you.”

 

The words hit home. It’s just plain insulting to act like I can’t defend myself, especially after I’ve saved his ass so many times. His forehead smooths out from the crinkled mess, and his voice drops, to be soft and gentle. “But it would be my fault.”

 

“Is there _anything_ that’s not your fault?” I counter. This incident, _absolutely_ was Jack’s fault, and if I _had_ died, I would have haunted Jack’s ass until _he_ died. But the fact is that Jack is shouldering too _much_ guilt, and he won’t even talk about what any of it _is_.

 

The question startles him into silence. I tap the spot right between his eyebrows with my index finger. “You said you would stop doing stupid shit, Jack. I’m _here_. And as long as I’m here, I’m going to make sure you don’t get your dumb ass killed.”

 

“You--you don’t have to.” Jack’s words are strangled, forced. Like the second he finally acknowledges that I have his back, he’s signing my death warrant. He doesn’t lower the visor, but I know the pained expression on his face anyway.

 

“But I _am_. It’s as simple as that, Jack. I’m not giving up on you.” I hold my gaze with red pixels, steady and unblinking. The only warning I get is Jack’s shoulders sagging before he pulls me into a tight hug.

 

“That’s--that’s great,” the museum head says, nervously skittering back and forth between the door and nearest support beam. “Can--can we _leave_ the exploding building now?”

* * *

The statue of Kathuset is a solid iron block, encasing a glass tube with some kind of liquid in it. There’s a placard explaining its construction and materials, but I don’t bother reading it. I’m more interested in admiring the piece back where it belongs, in a grand display case in the museum. Jack is talking to museum security; whether or not the blackmail threat was real, it’s always a good idea to double up on security after there’s been an attempt on your life.

 

“Where to next, boss?” I ask him when he finally finishes with the guards.

 

“Home,” he says. “This is HCPD’s problem now.”

 

“What the hell, Jack?” I demand. There’s really no other words for it. He’s never abandoned a case before, and he’s certainly never turned to the _authorities_ when his life was in danger.

 

“I’ve been...selfish.” Jack spends so much time being coolly stoic, it’s easy to forget that sometimes he struggles with words. He’s struggling now, fiddling with his tactical visor just so he can have something to do with his hands. I can see uncertainty all over his face, and--well, it’s the first time I’ve _seen_ uncertainty on his _face_. If he’s ever felt it, his tactical visor always hid the expression. But he’s being...open. And honest.

 

Something in Jack is...breaking. And for the first time, I’m not entirely sure it’s a bad thing.

 

“I’ve never considered... _your_ feelings.” He has a couple of false starts--opening his mouth, and then promptly closing it. I’ve never heard Jack _stutter_ before, but this was pretty damn close. I’m practically exploding with curiosity about what he possibly _means_ , but I don’t rush him. He’ll explain. He always does.

 

“I’m an old soldier, Hana,” Jack finally says. “I haven’t--I haven’t seen anything worth _saving_ in these old bones in...a long time. I never…” he lets out a deep breath, and steadies himself. “I never thought you would…”

 

“That you were worth an extraction?” I supply. He’s a soldier, and I know his language. Jack looks relieved that I stepped in.

 

“I’ve been...acting as a solo unit. And I didn’t realize that put the whole troop in danger.” The uncertainty is gone from his face now, but instead...everything in his face seems to have gone...soft. His gaze is gentle, instead of challenging, and instead of hard lines around his eyes his face, for once, is relaxed. “I know you’re a capable woman, Hana. But I _never_ meant to put you in danger. You’re...you’re important to me, and I’d never forgive myself if I lost you.”

 

“Don’t take yourself so seriously. There’s _no_ way I’m dying before you, old man.” My voice shakes, and despite the barb, Jack smiles at me. My vision blurs-- _shit_ \--and Jack awkwardly holds his arms open for a hug.

 

It’s a little embarrassing how much I’m moved by such a simple declaration. But the fact is, I’ve been painfully aware of the fact that even though I have Jack’s back, no one has had _mine_ . Ever since I lost my parents, I’ve been on my own, and watching over Jack has filled a cold, gaping void in my chest, like scar tissue closing up a wound. But Jack _cares_ , dammit, and the scar rips wide open when I realize that I finally have someone backing _me_ up.

  
“Let’s go home,” Jack repeats, his voice just as gentle as the hand rubbing my back. “I’ll drive.”


End file.
